“Fight or flight?”
I jump back, slamming my spine against the lockers.
Penn.
“What the hell, Scully?”
He’s in the girls’ locker room at a school he doesn’t even attend. He’s got the word trouble written all over him, and if my dad ever finds out we were in here alone, he is going to hang him by the balls on All Saints’ flagpole and let his broken legs flap in the wind.
Not to mention—he is seeing me close to naked. Again.
“Answer me.”
“Fight. I always fight. So, does your girlfriend know you slept with Blythe Ortiz and kissed me?” I smile sweetly, trying to look unaffected, but I immediately regret my question. I’m not supposed to know about Blythe, and I’m not supposed to care he kissed me.
Penn whistles, nodding. “Keeping tabs, Daria? I just kissed you to prove I could have you whenever I wanted you. But it doesn’t matter what she knows or doesn’t know because I don’t want you. My turn to ask a question.” He takes a step toward me, crowding me against the metal cabinets. The place is spacious, if not embarrassingly luxurious. The lockers are the color of our uniforms—blue and black—and our rich parents shelled out thousands for the fancy chrome sinks, glass showers, and upholstered navy benches.
Penn’s gaze is so penetrating, my skin blossoms into goose bumps. As though he can see beneath my skin. I’m ugly behind the tan and makeup and mascara. All flesh and inner organs and blood vessels and hate. Marx, why am I so hateful?
“Are you actively trying to be a bitch, or does it just come naturally?”
A little bit of both, the Hulk inside me explains. I’m naturally envious and petty, but being a bitch is a knee-jerk reaction when I feel threatened.
Of course, I would die before giving him a real answer. I run my cold gaze over his healing face. Perfectly troubled and gorgeously flawed, like Johnny Depp in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. I’d flip my hair if he gave me room, but with his body flush against mine—much closer than he was when we were in my bathroom yesterday—if I move, I’ll touch him. I want to touch him. Which is exactly why I won’t.
“When it comes to you?” I run my eyes over his face. “I’m a natural, baby.”
When he continues to ooze stoic boredom, I elaborate on a scoff.
“You started it, okay? Gus thought we were peeps, so he wanted me to play mediator. But you couldn’t stop throwing digs at me. Was I supposed to just stand there and take it?”
“Isn’t that what All Saints cheerleaders are for?” He smirks.
“You’re a jerk.”
“And you’re a liar. You ambushed my ass.”
“Why would I ambush you?” I stomp, and my knee brushes his leg. His jeans are torn at the knees, and I caught a glimpse of the dusting of light hair on his tan legs when we were outside. I’m sure all of him is glorious, and it pisses me off that I don’t have the entire mental picture of him naked. The same one he has of me.
“Because you’re the cool kids’ puppet? Because you think you’re some bullshit queen bee who has to shove her nose into shit? Because I hate your—”
I crash my lips on his with a furious kiss that shuts him up. I know I’m a chicken shit and just don’t want to hear the truth. What surprises me is that he relents. His hands cup my face, and his lips mold with mine. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t kiss boys I hardly know. I don’t even kiss boys I do know. Kissing is a huge deal for me. Yet Penn is not exactly a stranger. It’s as though I carried him the entire time he was gone in that sea glass necklace, and now that he took it from me, the only way to satisfy this craving is with his attention.
His stares. His wrath. His lips.
“My dad is going to kill you.” I grin into his mouth, and his tongue wrestles its way between my lips again.
“You can’t put cream in front of a starving cat and expect it to look the other way.”
His breath is ragged, and his hands are big and callused, rough and warm and familiar. His fingers trace my face and neck and hair, tugging it back to arch my neck, and he sucks on the spot beneath my jaw until I yelp as he marks me. Joy explodes in my chest. Penn’s taste in my mouth is heaven. Sweet and dangerous, like a man. I taste cut grass and the California sunshine and a bit of sweat and toothpaste and heat. Our tongues are dancing together. I’m no longer sure if I’m sad or happy, but whatever I am—I’m feeling it. I’m living it. I’m alive.